


heart-stopping

by renecdote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Discussion of character death, Explosion, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, No actual death tho, Whumptober, of the life-affirming variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 06:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Bruce is looking at Alfred one moment, then an explosion the next. And just like that it feels like his world is collapsing.





	heart-stopping

**Author's Note:**

> For whumptober day two: explosion
> 
> yeah i'm sorry about this one....

“I’ll be right down,” Bruce said, shrugging into his coat. He jammed the phone between shoulder and ear, patting down his pockets for his wallet and keys. Standing at the floor to ceiling window, he could crane his neck and see the ant-sized figure of Alfred leaning against the Lincoln out the front. Black tie, waistcoat and jacket, chauffeur cap pulled low over his stubbornly receding hairline. 

He always blamed Bruce for that. Said all those antics when Bruce was young scared all the hairs off his head. Bruce had rolled his eyes and joked that maybe Alfred was just getting old. Then his own kid had been kidnapped for the first time and he’d realised that Alfred might have a point.

It was Dick who was getting Bruce out of work early today. A matinee performance for the theatre club at school, where Dick was very excited to be debuting as Peter Pan. He’d spent hours practicing lines while hanging from increasingly precarious positions. The bannister, the chandelier, a climbing rig down in the cave, even hanging off gargoyles about the city. 

“ _ Very good, sir, _ “ Alfred replied. He sounded vaguely distracted. “ _ I have the tickets and camera, but don’t forget the— _ ”

(Afterwards, Bruce couldn’t recall the details to tell the police officers on the scene, but in his dreams that night it replayed in perfect high-definition.)

There was the light first—a flash of blinding white, or maybe yellow, maybe orange-tinged-with-black—then the sound half a second later. It was muffled, softened by the double-paned glass, but Bruce swore he could feel the rumbling even thirty floors up. It was almost as loud as the sudden silence in his ear. The tone of a line abruptly disconnected and then silence so loud it was physically painful. 

He pressed his face against the glass until it hurt but the ant-sized Alfred was gone, the Lincoln a burning husk. Dark smoke filled the street while Bruce—while he what? Did nothing? He couldn’t just stand there, couldn’t just gawk like the terrified onlookers on the street. Alfred was down there. He had to—he had to—

The elevator was too slow. The world had imploded and Bruce was frozen in time, boxed into the seconds before the explosion. Floors slid by in a mocking countdown—fifteen, twelve, eleven, eight, six, five, four—and Bruce suddenly, desperately, did not want that counter to reach one. As long as the numbers kept going, he hadn’t reached the end, he was safe, insulated, cheating time in a six by eight box. He didn’t breathe and he didn’t feel and  _ it hadn’t happened _ .

Then the elevator opened on the lobby and time sped up. Bruce pushed through the growing crowd in a blur, elbowing aside the people who tried to grab him. They didn’t understand. They didn’t—couldn’t they see that his  _ dad _ was out there? 

It was the smell that hit him first. The acrid, choking smell of burning rubber. It made his eyes water, his lungs seize. His voice a hoarse whisper when he tried to call Alfred’s name. 

“Sir,” someone said, “sir, please, you shouldn’t—”

Bruce shook that person off too. People were congealing in huddles and he tried to see through them, tried to see which ones were hiding Alfred. He was standing right there, Bruce had seen him, and then the bomb—it must have been a bomb, cars didn’t just explode, not unless someone wanted them to. Bruce should have been looking for clues, collecting evidence so he could figure out who to punish later, but none of that was important. Nothing was important if Alfred… if he was…

One of the huddles shifted and he could suddenly see Alfred’s cap smouldering beside a dented rim.

Bruce wanted to scream. He wanted to sob. He wanted to get back in the elevator, go back to his office, sit down at his desk and start the afternoon all over again. 

He wanted to hug Alfred. Tell him he loved him. Tell him he was sorry about all the trouble that made him lose his hair.

He didn’t want a lot of things, but life just kept taking them away.

Someone was grabbing him again, talking at him. Bruce tried to push them away, but he couldn’t make his arms move, couldn’t even breathe. 

“Bruce,” they said. “Bruce, look at me. Bruce, my boy—”

And Bruce turned, hardly daring to believe, hands coming up to grasp singed shoulders. “Alfie—” 

And it was. It was Alfred, suit torn, but body whole, face ashen in the glimpse before he was crushing Bruce to his chest in a hug. 

“I’m alright, dear boy,” he murmured, hands clutching Bruce’s coat so tight it almost hid the shaking. “We’re alright.”

Bruce shuddered, scrambling to pull himself back together. He was holding back just as tightly and it must be painful but he didn’t care because Alfred was alive. He was  _ alive _ . “I saw the explosion, I thought you were—”

“I’m okay,” Alfred repeated, “I’m okay. I’m sorry, I’m okay.”

Again and again until Bruce could believe it enough to let go. 

(“They were amateurs,” Alfred sniffed later, “the thing started beeping when it reached the last few seconds, gave me enough time to jump out of the way.”)

“You’re okay,” Bruce said, like an affirmation. People were watching, crowding them with questions and concerns, but he didn’t care. Alfred was okay. Alfred was okay so everything else would be too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr is [here](https://renecdote.tumblr.com/)


End file.
